In This Sleep
by e-pony
Summary: In the realm of dreams, silence can reveal more than words.


New territory for me here: some angst and a missing scene, or an AU scene if you prefer, from "DIAG." Thanks to Kelly and Max for the betas. If anyone has input, comments or corrections, please drop me a line, especially if I've misused the Queen's English or let too many Americanisms sneak in. Thanks, Pony.

_Characters from "The Professionals" are the property of Mark-1 Productions Ltd. I am simply borrowing them temporarily – without fraudulent intent or anticipation of monetary gain._

**In This Sleep**

By e-pony

_For in this sleep of death what dreams may come?_ "Hamlet," William Shakespeare

That poor bloke on the table! Looks right done in, doesn't he? But I reckon having two bullets cut outta you would do that to anyone – especially a pale, skinny bugger like 'im. But he's so still… and there's so much blood. Think I'd get used to that in my line of work, but it hasn't happened yet.

Now, me partner, Bodie… well, not much gets to 'im. That black humour of his – self-defence, innit? And the way he lives in the moment, too, like the future's no concern and the past holds no regrets. At least, not 'til some old enemy or mate turns up… or some long-lost bird.

Speakin' of Bodie (that self-indulgent prat), where _is_ he? Our mates in CI5 call us Cowley's "double act." And I reckon it fits. We're never far apart – at HQ, in training with Macklin, or out in the field. Even spend a fair bit of our time off together: double dating, "bird-watchin'" over a pint at his local, or noshin' takeaway while catching a match on the telly.

I gotta say, it's a good feeling havin' that big berk at my side. Dependable in a pinch, he is. And his hard right cross and Class A shooting have saved me hide more than a couple times. So… where is he now? Helluva time to be chatting up the new barmaid at The Royal Arms!

The surgeon in the operating theatre speaks up, and my attention shifts back to the action below. The nurse hustles over with some shiny, silver implements, while a tech fiddles with some dials and wires. I can't hear what anyone's sayin', but their voices are hushed and grim. And, suddenly, I feel for that pale bastard bleedin' out on that cold table – gasping for breath, with his innards on view for the world to see. Ready for the knackers, he is. Why don't they just let 'im go?

Then, another voice, a familiar one, reaches my ears: "C'mon, mate. C'mon. Fight for Christ's sake! Don't let 'em win; don't –" The voice catches in a half-sob.

****

Bodie?!

Frantically, my head turns side to side, as my glance darts wildly 'bout the room. _There!_ In the viewing bay opposite, Bodie stands stiffly, watching the operation with expressionless eyes. His face is set in that stony glare he reserves for dangerous ops or uncooperative CI5 detainees. Yet somehow I know he's scared, haunted by a sadness he won't show. The Old Man is beside him, feet planted wide and hands clasped behind his back. He is watching the struggle below, too. In all the years I've known 'im, I've never seen him look so… _grave_.

Just who _is_ that poor sod, I wonder, that me partner and me guv'nor have come to watch him choke out 'is last breath? Why should they _care_? Is he a witness? A victim caught in the crossfire? Or maybe another young agent shot while on duty? Seems funerals are as common as new recruits in the squad – or more common, 'cause our ranks're never full.

I turn my gaze back to the bloke on the table, tryin' to suss out his identity like he's a crim in a line-up. The round, wan face, the mop of red-brown hair – these prick at my memory. I know 'im; I know –

"Fight, damn it!" Bodie's voice comes again, his words as clear as the doc's had been indecipherable. Fact is, he sounds as if he were standing right beside me, rather than behind a glass wall 'cross the room.

"You're stronger than this," he pleads.

But, this time, I'm watching 'im as he speaks, and I suddenly realise with surprise that he isn't really _speaking_ at all! His face is set, his lips unmoving.

Dread pools in my gut and burns its way up my throat. I don't need to "hear" my partner's next words to know who the bloke dyin' on that table is.

"Ray," Bodie chokes into the quiet of the theatre, never forming a word. "C'mon, sunshine. C'mon."

As my whirling thoughts plunge me into darkness, I hear the harsh sound of Bodie crying. But the last thing I see before I fall is the stoic figure of my partner, unmoving – seemingly unmoved – dry-eyed… and silent.


End file.
